A Letter From the Past
by Stormcrown201
Summary: Dorian and an uncharacteristically distressed Inquisitor Lavellan discuss the aftermath of the Battle of Denerim and read a letter from the late Hero of Ferelden's father.


Late in autumn at Skyhold, it's yet to snow, but winter is on the way, and the frost on the windows and the chill in the winds are proof enough of that. As little as Dorian can tolerate the cold weather of the Frostbacks, there are still times when he needs fresh air. When he finds late in the morning that he's read the same paragraph five times and absorbed nothing of it, too distracted by thoughts of home and the upcoming battle at Adamant, he shoves it aside with as long-suffering a sigh as he's ever given. Then he rises from his chair, heads up into the rookery, and steps out through the foolishly open door onto the battlements.

He regrets the venture almost the instant he steps out said door thanks to a most inconveniently timed blast of chilly wind, the likes of which he would never feel in Minrathous except as a result of magic. But after having trudged around the Fallow Mire, the Western Approach, and the Exalted bloody Plains with the _dear Inquisitor_ for weeks on end, Dorian also finds he's far too proud to complain now. Much, anyway. He grits his teeth and soldiers on, and he tries to clear his head as best he can.

A while later, when he's no longer able to contain his grumbling and when his head is still so fogged that he's considering abandoning this little enterprise altogether, Dorian comes onto a different section of the battlements, one with a better view of both the courtyard and the Frostbacks. He spares the scenery a single disinterested glance—these mountains never change, and the courtyard is relatively quiet for once. But as he does so, he spots a rather more arresting sight, midway down the battlements: a lithe elven figure in form-fitting, carefully chosen garments, red hair blowing slightly in the breeze. Even from here, Dorian can make out the parchment in his hand and the uncharacteristic slump of his shoulders.

Mildly concerning. Leas told him once that that diminutive means 'light', and one of his clanmates who came from the Free Marches to help the Inquisition is in the habit of calling him Vunleas, apparently 'sunlight'. He's aptly named, a man with a perpetual smile on his face and a relaxed, approachable bearing that oozes self-confidence in a way that even Dorian finds rather alluring. Dorian has seen him anxious, he's seen him neutral, and he's seen him focused, but—rather ridiculously, considering the entire situation—he's never seen him _unhappy_ before now. Nor has he ever seen him not engaged in some sort of business (and apparently talking to him and the rest of the inner circle is 'business'); as far as he can tell, the man's free time seems to be close to nonexistent. This is unusual and worth his attention because of it.

Perhaps something has happened with his clan. Leas told him they were running into trouble near Wycome… He has no evidence to support this hypothesis, but still, Dorian's stomach clenches, and before he can reconsider, he's started on his way over to the Inquisitor. Getting closer, as the wind dies down for a moment, Dorian realises he can hear sniffling, and it's not the sort made by a man who's come down with a cold. For a moment, he halts in his tracks, almost too stunned to speak—ridiculous though it may be, he now realises he's half-convinced himself that the perennially cheerful Uvunleas Lavellan was _incapable_ of crying.

_Absurd when you think about it. He's a person. A seemingly impossible person most of the time, but he has the same full spectrum of emotions as anyone else._ Something that Dorian should not have to remind himself of, and he shakes his head as if to cleanse himself of his momentary foolishness while he resumes his steps. As he approaches, Leas looks up.

There are those eyes again, almost too large for his face and bluer than the sky, the most arresting shade of blue Dorian has ever seen in a pair of eyes. He tries to shake that thought too, and though his head is foggy, it is clear enough for him to note that while Leas' eyes are wet, they are not noticeably red-rimmed, nor is his face marked with tears. That makes this _marginally_ easier, but Dorian still suspects he's entering utterly alien territory, so foreign is the concept of Leas displaying an emotion more negative than mere _uneasiness_.

"Dorian," Leas says, and of course he tries to manage a smile. To give the man his credit, it is appropriately winsome, and it even looks genuine despite the wetness of his eyes. "I beg your pardon, but I'm surprised to see you out here."

Dorian chuckles and leans next to him on the battlements. "Pardon granted," he says, and that gets a laugh. That needs no explanation, either. As much as Dorian cannot comprehend it, Leas rather _does_ like playing with fire, and the sheer irony of their little… whatever it is… the Tevinter nobleman and the Dalish elf, is a source of endless amusement to him. No doubt his asking for Dorian's pardon and Dorian granting it, however light-heartedly, is another part of that. Dorian's not so sure it's all that funny, but that's an argument for another day.

"I couldn't concentrate," Dorian says when Leas has stopped laughing. "I thought I'd try to clear my head. Sadly, much like any number of my less brilliant ideas, it's not working as well as I'd hoped…"

"We all have days like that," Leas says as he looks out over the Frostbacks again.

"Do you?"

"Most of the time, I'm too busy," is the immediate response, delivered with another, more placid smile. "Apparently all the work I have to do is a natural deterrent to my head being foggy. Or perhaps _somniari_ are immune to it, at least until a demon takes them. Then we're talking a different kind of fogginess…" He says it all so lightly, and despite everything, Dorian laughs. In turn, Leas grins, and Dorian is both pleased and not at all surprised to see that his mild distress has already mostly vanished. Leas is far too easy to cheer up, like the optimist he is—it's no wonder that clanmate of his calls him 'sunlight'.

"The benefits of being a dreamer, such as they are," Dorian says, and he sidles up to Leas—at least, as much as propriety will allow. He certainly doesn't _touch_ him, not here, even though they're alone. Anybody could walk through the doors at any instant, and then where would they be? Instead, he glances at the letter. "Are you… all right? You looked, dare I say, _mildly upset_ before I arrived."

Leas looks down at the letter too, and though he chuckles, Dorian can see the sadness returning to his eyes, the way they droop and tighten to form that kicked puppy look that's so irresistible. "An event to mark on the calendar, I know," he says, with only a touch of humour. "It's simply… I got a letter. From the Denerim alienage."

Not his clan, then. That's something, he supposes. "The alienage?" Dorian says. "No offence, but who there would be looking to contact you after all these years?"

The Inquisitor lets out another brief chuckle, but it sounds distinctly forced as compared to the others. "True, most have likely forgotten me, and that's all right," he says. "No, it's from Cyrion Tabris. The father of the Hero of Ferelden."

That perks his interest. Dorian glances curiously at Leas and asks, "What does he say?"

Leas hesitates for a moment, and then he holds the letter out for Dorian to read. Knowing better than to question him, Dorian takes it and scans the contents.

_To His Worship, the Herald of Andraste, Lord Inquisitor Uvunleas Lavellan,_

_It is strange to write these words, especially the title 'Herald of Andraste'. That they would give an elf this title, no matter what his accomplishments, it is beyond what I can comprehend. Some of us here in the alienage think this is a good thing, shows that the Chantry is finally willing to trust an elf, enough to give him a title. Others say they are using you, are showing no regard for who you are, and will abandon you at the first opportunity. I am unsure, myself._

_Forgive me, I did not mean to ramble. It is equally strange to write these words about the boy I knew eleven years ago, now a grown man. I did not think of you often before the Breach, Inquisitor, but I remember you. That boy who journeyed across half of Ferelden to get to Denerim, alone, who scaled the walls of a sealed alienage and made himself at home despite how poorly received he was, who survived the slavers and walked in the Fade to find our _hahren_ and everyone else who the Tevinters took before they could be shipped off, who defended the alienage in that last battle even though he was only fifteen and it was not his home. I suppose it's hard to forget. We were in a cage together for a time, after all._

_But that was years ago. I ought to speak more of the present. They abolished my title when I was almost killed as I left the Landsmeet, so I've little to offer you, but I thought I might give my support, regardless. Tell you that you are doing good work. That that boy who whimpered in the cage and endured so much to get to Denerim is now leading half of Thedas—there's something pleasing in that. I don't rightly know what._

_And they tell stories of you here, in the alienage. When the children play their games, half of them want to be you, and the other half want to be Elior. The two of you have given us all hope, and maybe that's enough even though things aren't much different in the alienage from how they were before. That an elf could rise so high, that humans could accept him so readily—yes, there are naysayers, but mostly it makes us want more. I'm almost eager to see what might arise because of it._

_As for Elior, I know you admired him. I never got the chance to discuss you with him, but I suspect it would please him that the boy he saved twice has now become a hero in his own right and a champion of our people. He always was so loyal to us; he would be happy to see someone else furthering the cause just as he did. He let his heart rule his head at times and was often so filled with distrust and hatred for humans, and I would not advise that for you, but his loyalty and dedication were irreproachable. Of course, I am biased, but I think most would agree it is the truth._

_I miss him still every day._

_There are days now when I can keep my mind off him, when I can think of other things. But without a title and without him, I've little left to live for, and that's not something one gets used to even after over a decade. Since that last battle, I've lived over half the amount of time he had: ten years out of almost nineteen. For so long, it didn't seem fair to me, and it still doesn't. But I've learnt to live with it, in the same way that I learnt to live with the injustice of Adaia's murder and everything else._

_It's harder to live with the silence in the house. I'd believed him dead before, after Ostagar, but to have him return to us only to be ripped away again, just as quickly and forever—that was infinitely worse than the first blow. The house has been mostly empty for all these years, barring the occasional visitor, and most nights I gaze across the table, and I remember Adaia and Elior sitting in the empty chairs, or only Elior. I can almost conjure up the sounds of their voices, their scents, their everything. Then I open my eyes, and there's nothing but the sound of my breathing, and the only memento to see is that sword of his, Starfang, hanging on the wall, and I have no company other than my thoughts. It is horrifically lonely._

_The worst part is it doesn't even feel like anything anymore. I think of Elior, my poor fierce boy, rotting away in Weisshaupt, surely a skeleton now—and I feel nothing but numbness. I think I'm supposed to weep or to yell, and I used to, but that's no longer the case. I consider what he could have been: Bann of the alienage in my place, perhaps, or Warden-Commander of Ferelden, or a husband and father and maybe even _hahren_ if not for Vaughan Kendells—and it stirs nothing but a few twinges of regret. Even the concept of the grandchildren he'd always wished to provide me but now will never be does nothing to me these days. It is simply there._

_I don't think this means I've healed. How does a man heal from the loss of his son? Rather, the pain has gone on so long that I've become numb to it. Make of that what you will. I look forward to seeing him and his mother again, for at this point I have little else._

_All of this is, I realise, a very personal thing to be sharing with a man I knew only briefly a decade ago. But there is a reason behind it. I want to tell you, Inquisitor, not only to keep up the good work and have faith in the hope you are providing to our people, but also that I hope you have a better time than Elior. I do not know all the details of what he endured in the Blight even now, but I know he suffered greatly. I hope you fare better than he, even if your burden is weightier. And above all this, I hope that you come to a happier end than he, that you never inflict on your parents—presuming they still live—what he did on me. I hope you ensure your followers never do the same for theirs. I am numb to this agony now, but I would not wish it even on the worst of the humans. I suspect my words above only barely begin to capture the horror of it._

_I wish I could end this letter on a happier note, but this was the reason I wrote to you. I know you cannot save everyone, and I beg you to remember that, but please: save who you can. Do as much for the children as you do for the parents. Please._

_Good luck, Inquisitor, and may the Maker watch over you._

_Yours sincerely,_

_Cyrion Tabris._

By the time he finishes reading and hands the letter back to Leas, Dorian is almost lost for words. Looking up, he can see that Leas' eyes have become wet again, and he can't blame him. "Maker's breath," he murmurs. "That… that poor man. I can't imagine living that way."

"I can," Leas says, his voice equally soft as he turns away, staring out over the Frostbacks again. There's a haunted look on his usually smiling face—no trace of sunlight now. "I'm sure my imagination is painfully inadequate here, but when I think of doing to _Mamae i Babae_ what Elior Tabris did to Cyrion, however inadvertently… a chill settles in my gut. I already did that once, after a fashion: they believed I died when I was separated from the clan. That day I returned to them, at long last… _Mamae_ never cries, but she cried then. _Babae_ was on the verge of it. Then, a decade later, I went to the Conclave, and the next they heard of me was that I had got tangled up with a primarily human _Andrastian_ organisation. I can only imagine what they felt. What they're feeling…"

Dorian has no better imagination than Leas on this front, but even the man's words suffice to send a bolt of ice through his veins. "And this was before Iselen and Adhlean joined us, and your other clanmates," he says.

"Yes," Leas says, uncharacteristically grim. "Anverelan, my cousin… he hates his parents, and I don't blame him, but they've already lost one child, and he is scarcely eighteen. I _refuse_ to have to say to them, or to any of the parents and grandparents and _hahrenen_ in my clan, that I couldn't keep their children safe. And my parents… their only children are at Skyhold, surrounded by _shemlen_, hurling themselves into danger nearly every day, and their only _grandson_ is here because he's one mage too many and the only alternative was sending him to another clan without my knowledge. Dreadful, truly."

"Is that why they're not so opposed to people like… well, me and Vivienne? Cassandra?" That may be a selfish question, but Dorian recalls the one time he met Rahnmyathis and Melothari Lavellan, how they were not happy to learn that their son was keeping company with a Tevinter and the Orlesian Imperial Enchanter and so many members of the Chantry. But rather than protest as their clanmates did, they seemed to resign themselves to the concept. Perhaps they don't care who their son travels with, so long as he stays alive.

Leas nods. "I believe so," he says. "They don't like you, but if you'll protect me, that's good enough for them."

Dorian's mouth twists, though whether it's in a smile or a grimace, even he's not entirely sure. "And… the rest of it?"

The Inquisitor looks down, face turning faintly pink as he chuckles. "That's a bridge to be crossed when we come to it," he says. "They won't have a problem with me being with a man, I've never made a secret of where my preferences lie, but you… I'll bring them around. Give me time."

"I would _love_ to see that," Dorian says, somewhat disbelievingly.

"Have a little faith," Leas says, with a wry grin and a gleam in his eyes. "You _are_ talking to the man who's trying to overturn a millennium of hatred and subjugation by _talking_ to people and making friends of them. _Mamae i Babae_ can do their worst."

"Point taken," Dorian says, shaking his head as he thinks, for the thousandth time, that this man is _impossible_. Someone like him ought not to exist, and yet he does, and perhaps that's another reason for his allure. But that's an idea for another time, and he tries to shove it aside as a comfortable silence falls between them.

Eventually, Dorian leans back on the wall of the battlements and glances at Leas again. "What was it like?" he asks. "Those final moments, after the archdemon fell? They're talked about in books often enough, but I can't imagine any second-hand account compares to that of someone who was actually there."

"Probably not," Leas says, and as Dorian sees that haunted expression come back into his eyes, he wonders if he should have asked. "It was… Creators and the Maker have mercy, it haunts my nightmares sometimes. Try to imagine it, if you will, the sudden, disbelieving hope when we saw the plume of smoke rising from the top of Fort Drakon—the hush that ran through the alienage. Then imagine the darkspawn that had been pressing us for hours just… getting up and _leaving_. Imagine the silence, then imagine the sudden eruption, the cheers and the shouts of joy." A vague smile crosses his face. "People tackled each other and got into ten-person hugs in the street, there was singing and drinking while we were still covered in blood and darkspawn gunk, an impromptu celebration if ever there was one. The city elves and the Dalish danced together, for once, and then we weren't city elves or Dalish elves—we were just _elves_, united. It was beautiful."

"But it all went wrong," Dorian says.

Leas nods. "It was a few hours before it all went wrong, but yes," he says. "Eventually, King Alistair and the rest of the Hero's party, they all came down to the alienage from the tower. When we realised they were coming, half of us raced to the entrance, to give Elior Tabris the hero's welcome he deserved. There was more cheering—it was deafening, almost—then they entered, and Alistair was at the head of the procession, and Elior was nowhere to be seen. Until…"

He draws in a deep, shuddering breath and closes his eyes, as though absorbing himself in the memory. Dorian watches him and does his best to picture it, but again he suspects his imagination falls short. "There was another elf in that party, an Antivan. He had the face of a man full of life and energy, but beneath all the blood, his eyes were blank, and he wasn't… looking at anything. That was the first sign I got that something was wrong. Then there was Leliana, weeping. Everyone, even the Qunari man and the golem—after a fashion—they all looked so… dispirited despite the victory. But no one realised what was happening until some guards came and lay the stretcher on the ground…"

Here, Leas ducks his head, and Dorian can see his lip trembling a little. On impulse, before any concerns about blasted _propriety_ can stop him, he moves to put a hand on his arm, and Leas seems to lean into the touch. He lets out another, even shakier breath, and Dorian wonders how clear the memory is, that he can recount it so perfectly after so many years. Perhaps it has to do with him being a dreamer—they dream so vividly, and if this haunts his nightmares…

After a few moments, Leas continues. "From where I was standing, I had a good view. As soon as they laid the stretcher down, I saw, and I knew. I turned away—I couldn't bear to watch. But when the others saw… I heard it. Imagine, now, the silence that fell over the alienage _this_ time. The sort of silence you only hear after some great disaster has come to pass. All you could hear was the flames crackling… and then Alistair asked for Cyrion, and the rest of the Hero's party stepped away from the stretcher, and everyone _saw_. There was a woman, the Hero's cousin—she gasped and put her hands over her mouth. Another cousin, a young man, he… froze into place. And his face just _crumpled_. And Cyrion… he broke through the crowd, also froze in place, and… I can't even describe the look on his face. Alistair said a few words, apologised—he was in tears, too—but I don't think Cyrion heard him. He just raced off, and I heard him shout out his son's name and turned around in time to see him lift the body off the stretcher… Again and again, he called out his name, but there was nothing. And there was no sound but his voice, ringing through the alienage, and his desperate pleas, _please Elior wake up look at me Maker no please don't let it be my son don't let it be the end_ _please!_" His voice shakes, and Dorian tightens his grip and sees him lift a hand to his face to wipe his eyes.

"Then he finally gave up. And after that, there was nothing but the sound of his sobbing, at least until Valendrian came, with eyes as dead as the Antivan's, and told us all to please _leave_ and let Cyrion grieve his son alone. But that _noise_… that noise and the silence… that's what haunts my nightmares. I can still hear it, sometimes, on the wind. It's not a horde of darkspawn, it's not Tevinter slavers, it's not the curse of lycanthropy burning in the veins… but it's so much more haunting in so many ways. Even after so long…"

Dorian shakes his head, perhaps even more stunned by the recount than he was by Cyrion's letter. "That… that must have been _appalling_. I'm sorry you… you had to go through that."

"I've made my peace with it," Leas says, and his voice sounds marginally steadier now. "But _ma serannas_—thank you."

"You don't sound like you've spoken about it much to anyone," Dorian remarks after a moment, though he's not sure why. "Have you?"

Leas shrugs. "A few people. Iselen, mostly. But most can't understand, even he, so I prefer to keep it to myself unless I'm asked. It was good to get it off my chest, though, I'll admit." Another pause, longer this time, and Leas wipes the wetness from his eyes and stands up tall again. He glances at Dorian.

"Not to contradict what I just said right after saying it," he says, "but… however horrible that entire experience was, from the beginning to the end, I wouldn't be _me_ without it. If I'd come to the Conclave having never known the Blight, you'd be dealing with a very different man. The Dalish created me, but the Blight _made_ me, and that's… that's important."

Dorian nods, understanding. How different he would be if he'd been born to another class in Tevinter, he thinks, or if his parents had loved each other, or any number of things. "You find your comfort where you can, I guess," he says, though it's admittedly not the most satisfactory response.

"And your sources of strength. What I saw with Keeper Zathrian taught me to avoid hatred wherever possible, to never let anger master me. What I heard when Cyrion Tabris collapsed, sobbing, over the body of his only child… well. I know I can't save everyone, but I _refuse_ to hear such weeping again. My parents will not cry for Iselen or me, nor I for Adhlean, nor Josephine's for her, nor…" He hesitates, and Dorian grimaces as he realises what he was about to say.

"Nor mine for me," he finishes, tiredly. "I… understand."

Leas nods, mouth pressed into a thin line, eyes wide and shining in the way they always are when he's apologetic about something. "To tell the truth, when Mother Giselle showed me that letter, I… thought your father was scared for you. I had no idea what had happened, and I thought he was afraid, that he didn't want you risking yourself down in the south. I… thought he deserved some assurance."

For a moment, Dorian wants to be angry about that, and it flickers in his gut, twists his mouth into a slight scowl. But as quickly, it disappears. Leas hadn't known, and he knows what it is like to be a parent frightened for their child, and he had nothing less than the best of intentions—the last of which _cannot_ be said of his father. "Perfectly understandable," he says. "For all I know, he could have been. But…"

"Too little, too late?"

"Something like that," Dorian says, hating more than ever the complicated storm of emotions that always rises in his chest whenever he thinks of his father. "Let's not talk about this anymore, if you please."

Naturally, Leas agrees, like the giving and sensitive man that he is. "Of course not," he says, and they spend the next—he's not sure how long, really, though it can't be less than an hour—whiling away the time, talking about everything and nothing at all. It's so much easier than it was in Tevinter, with no rules and no bloody _propriety_ to stop them, and eventually, Dorian finds himself no longer surreptitiously glancing at the doors out of the corners of his eyes. Soon, he's comfortable enough, for a change, to shift closer to Leas and run his hand up and down his arm, then up his neck, his jaw, and his smooth, tattooed cheek. It's the sort of affectionate stroking he's never had the chance to try before, and the tingling in his fingers as he tries it now, the warm smile on Leas' face, the twinkle in those sky blue eyes, and the flush on his face is all the encouragement he needs not to stop.

A little while later, they're no longer even talking, and Leas has his hand on Dorian's wrist while Dorian strokes down to his chin, then moves back up and entangles his fingers in those waves of well-maintained red hair that he's almost as fond of as Leas himself. Leas' face is heavily flushed, and his eyes are practically _glittering_ like the stars for whose light the man was named, and the tingling in Dorian's fingers has spread, and if they've got this far, then maybe they can go a little further. So he moves his hand around to the back of Leas' head, and Leas drops his own hand, then—

The door opens.

_Kaffas!_ Still, however much Dorian may have abandoned his senses in the past five minutes, his instincts are well-honed enough from his experiences in Tevinter that he doesn't hesitate in dropping his hand and springing away. To his credit, Leas doesn't even appear embarrassed or disappointed. He just shakes his head ruefully, an awkward grin playing around the corners of his mouth, and turns around, and Dorian can only marvel at his dignity. _He_ must look like a deer caught in the light of many torches.

The intruder approaches, and Dorian relaxes a tad when he sees that it is Adhlean, Leas' ten-year-old son who shares his father's bright blue eyes. Impatience burns in those eyes as he strides up to his father, more confident than he usually seems to be, and calls out, "_Babae! Babae, ane fel!_" While he does so, Dorian cautiously steps back, hoping the child won't notice him.

Leas rubs his forehead. "_Fel? Tel'eolasan ahn—_"

Adhlean interrupts. "_Dirth'ala, Babae, dirth'ala!_" he says, and his tone drips with impatient eagerness. To illustrate his point, seemingly, he lifts his hand and creates a small ball of light. "Magic!"

"Oh!" Here, Leas pinches his forehead and kneels to look Adhlean in the eye. "_Ir abelas, 'ma'hallain, unsilaiman._" He says more, but those are the only words that Dorian can pick out apart from a handful of Common words thrown into his sentences that make little sense without context. Once he has done speaking, he gets back to his feet, and Adhlean nods. So far, so good, but then Adhlean chances to glance in his direction, and Dorian grimaces as the colour drains from the boy's face.

Leas notices it too, and he puts his hand on Adhlean's shoulder, pulling him into his side. Again, he says more, but again, the only word that Dorian can pick out is '_tel'gela_'. Whatever it means, the boy continues to stare uncomfortably at him, and Leas shakes his head and looks up.

"I'd best get going. It's time for lessons," he says. "I'll catch you later, Dorian."

Despite himself, and despite Adhlean being right there, Dorian manages a grin. "Come back later, then," he says. Leas laughs, while the meaning _seems_ to sail merrily over Adhlean's head, if the confused expression on his face is anything to go by. Then the two turn away and leave, chattering animatedly in broken elvhen and Common as they go.

Dorian watches them until they're out of sight. _Indeed, you'd best not end up like Cyrion Tabris, or his son, for that matter,_ he thinks grimly. The boy may be terrified of him, and he doesn't even know yet what's going on between him and his father—at least, Dorian doesn't believe he knows—but if Dorian can do him anything, then it can be keeping Leas alive through this whole mess. There's been enough tragedy without more people ending up like either of the Tabris family.

A thought to keep him focused, something to gain out of all this, and the fog has now finally cleared. Mission accomplished, he supposes, no matter how grim his conversation with Leas was or how much it worries him that the man is still willing to get involved with him despite his son being scared half to death of him. He might try to overturn a millennium of prejudice, might try to bring his parents and his brother around—but can he convince the one whose opinion should matter more than anyone else's?

_Have a little faith._ Still, the thought dogs him all the way back to the library.

* * *

**Translations**

_"Babae! Babae, ane fel!"_: "Father! Father, you're late!"

_"Fel? Tel'eolasan ahn—"_: "Late? I don't know what—"

_"Dirth'ala, Babae, dirth'ala!"_: "Lessons, Father, lessons!"

_"Ir abelas, 'ma'hallain, unsilaiman."_: "I'm sorry, my little halla, I forgot."

_"Tel'gela."_: "Do not fear."

All translations taken from FenxShiral's Project Elvhen, which can be found on AO3.


End file.
